TWO MONUMENTS by Ruth Chester

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jul 15, 1880

TWO MONUMENTS.

By Ruth Chester

"Good morning, Mr. Craigin; hope I don't intrude; keep right on with your work. I can talk to you just as well while you're busy, and better, too," and the brisk little woman who uttered these words drew a dilapidated, flag-bottomed chair to the fire, and seated herself without waiting for an invitation.

Mr. Craigin, I blush to say it, was washing dishes,—for what business had a strong man, six feet high, to be doing work which some poor, needy woman would have been glad to do for him? Truth to tell, he blushed a little for himself; not because he was doing work which was out of his sphere, but because Miss Piper had caught him at it.

He therefore hastily removed the long, blue apron, which covered him from chin to boots, dropped it on the floor, and kicked it under the table, and with a glum "good morning, ma'am," deposited his lank frame in a rocking-chair, opposite his guest.

"I'm out on a little begging expedition, this morning," chirped Miss Piper; "and as the object is one you'll be sure to approve this time, I've come to you among the very first.

"You know the last time I called, it was for foreign missions, and you said you didn't approve of foreign missions, you thought folks had better look out for the heathen at their own doors. Well, now this is for the heathen at our own doors, for if Mike Walsh and his wife aint heathen, I don't know who is. He and she both drink and quarrel like bedlamites, and the children just roam the streets and get into all the mischief there is going, from week's end to week's end."

"And what do you propose to do about it?" asked Mr. Craigin.

"What I want is to get the children into the Sabbath-school."

"The Sabbath-school is free to all, isn't it?" said Mr. Craigin.

"Yes; but then they want something to wear, you know. It would be awkward for them to go there in their old duds, when all the rest of the children are dressed in their best, wouldn't it, now? You may call it pride, but it seems to me a justifiable pride; and besides, Mr. Craigin, there's a kind of respect due to the house of God."

"That's all true enough, ma'am. I've nothing to say against it; but what I do say is this, that Mike Walsh is abundantly able to provide his children with clothes, and send them to Sunday-school if he wants to."

"He dosen't want to, and that's the trouble; but that isn't the children's fault, poor things."

"I suppose, now," continued Mr. Craigin, "there are a number of men poorer than Mike Walsh that do dress up their children, and send them to Sunday-school?"

"Oh, to be sure there are; there's the little Todds, six of them, as tidy little girls and boys as comes into the meeting-house; and the little Perkinses, there's eight of them, and bright as a dollar, every one! And the little Colbys, I haven't counted them, lately, but there's a new one every time I do count," and Miss Piper laughed merrily as she said this; "the more the better, though, bless their little curly pates. And I could name ever so many besides, that are there every Sunday as regular as the day comes—ornaments to the school, too—and their parents poor, hard-working people, that don't do much more than make both ends meet."

"And the Todds, and the Perkinses, and the Colbys, you don't give them any help, I suppose?"

"Not the slightest."

"They are good people,—the parents,—if I understand you aright?"

"I guess they are; none better."

"Then it seems to me that the best way for a man to commend himself to the favor of this community, is to get drunk and steal, and break the ten commandments generally."

Miss Piper, who had rushed blindfold into the net spread for her, had no answer ready, and Mr. Craigin continued,—

"Yes, ma'am, I repeat it, when you leave your good people to shirk for themselves and help Mike Walsh and his like, you are setting a premium on vice."

"But it's the children we're thinking of," said Miss Piper, recovering the use of her tongue; "they oughtn't to be let suffer on their parents' account."

"That sounds plausible, and it's the kind of talk that influences a good many people, but it's all bosh, ma'am, bosh! Just let it be understood that society will assume all the responsibilities a man chooses to shirk, and the good-for-naughts will shirk the whole of them. It's this principle that fills our charitable asylums, and overruns the streets with beggars. Now my theory is, let every man look out for himself, and take the consequences of his own actions. If this theory was carried, how different things would be."

"They would, indeed," murmured Miss Piper. Then rising, she added, "So you don't care to give me anything to-day?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Craigin, shutting his lips tightly, and buttoning his vest as if Miss Piper had been a pickpocket, as he bowed her out of the door.

The house nearest Mr. Craigin's albeit it was not very near, for Mr. Craigin lived on a by-road, was that very Mr. Colby's of whom mention was made in the foregoing conversation.

Miss Piper was passing it, not intending to call, but it chanced that he was out digging potatoes, and seeing her hurrying by, cried cheerily,—

"Whither away so fast? On some good errand, I'll be bound."

"Why, yes, I hope so; I'm trying to pick up a little something for the Walsh children. I want to fit them out for Sunday-school."

"Then you're just the woman I want to see," said Mr. Colby, standing his hoe upright by thrusting the handle into the soft mould, and coming forward to the fence. "So you wasn't going to call, hey? I should like to know what I've done to be so slighted."

"Well, I did think, Mr. Colby, that you had about as much as you could attend to in your own family, and it would be an imposition to ask you to do for others."

"Now I look at it differently. I calculate that all I do for others will benefit my own children in the end."

"I don't know I see that, Mr. Colby," said Miss Piper.

"Why, isn't it for the advantage of my children to keep good company?"

"Of course it is."

"Well, the boys and girls that are growing up with them will be their companions, anyhow; they'll play together, and go to school together, and by-and-by they'll vote together, and manage the town affairs together, so isn't it for my interest to do all I can for the rising generation?"

"I believe you've proved your case, Mr. Colby."

"It didn't take much of an argument to prove that; if there's anything plain it is that the community can't afford to have vice and crime growing up in their midst, any more than I can afford to have my garden overrun with weeds. Train up the children in the way they should go, and there'll be no need of prisons and poor-houses."

And Mr. Colby took from his pocket a well-worn wallet, and handed Miss Piper a dollar bill. "I guess I'll make it two, though," he said. "I feel like making a thank-offering this morning."

"Then you've had some special good luck. I'm glad to hear it," said Miss Piper.

"Yes, we've got another little one in the house; the handsomest one we've had yet."

"Ah? And this makes how many?"

"Only nine living. We've buried two," said Mr. Colby, with a mournful intonation.

"Well, I hope this one will live to be as great a blessing as you deserve it should be," said Miss Piper, fervently. "Good-by; it's done me good, this talk with you has."

It had indeed answered for her some doubts which Mr Craigin's remarks had occasioned, and as she walked away these words kept running through her mind:—

"The community can't afford to have vice and crime growing up in their midst." "Train up the children in the way they should go, and there'll be no need of prisons and poor-houses."

To follow Miss Piper on her charitable round is not my purpose, but rather to show these two men—Mr. Craigin and Mr. Colby—in contrast.

Craigin had the reputation of being a miser. He scarcely allowed himself the necessaries of life; and that he never gave a cent towards any benevolent object whatever, were well-known facts. He took no part in town affairs, excepting to oppose all measures which involved the outlay of money, and to vote against the men who upheld them. He would sooner have seen the hangman coming to his door than the town assessor, and to pay his taxes was like giving up the ghost.

Mr. Colby was, as we have seen, a family man, but this circumstance, as we have also seen, instead of serving as a pretext for refusing to help others, seemed only to widen the channels of his benevolence. To him came the poor, the sorrowing, the suffering. Yes, and the sinning, too, and none ever appealed to him in vain.

The young sought counsel of him. He had no opportunity, and probably no talent, for great deeds, and was little heard of abroad, but the results of his influence and example were simply incalculable.

He was sometimes admonished that by giving so freely he ran the risk of impoverishing himself. "Oh, no, it only makes me richer," he would say.

So he lived his simple life, and in due time was gathered to his fathers, leaving behind him sons and daughters who revered his memory and walked in his footsteps.

Mr. Craigin died alone in his house, and was found some days after by the butcher, as he went his morning rounds.

Search was made by the proper authorities and a will found; it directed that all the property of the deceased—several thousand dollars—should be expended in a monument for himself.

The first thing the stranger sees on entering Beechwood Cemetery is that costly monument towering above all others.

"One of your distinguished men lies there, I suppose," he remarks.

"He never was distinguished for anything but his meanness," is the reply. "That's old Craigin, the miser."

Then follows an account of his worthless life and lonely death, so that the tall monument only serves to commemorate faults which might otherwise have been forgotten.

A short distance from this monument is a lowly grave with a slate headstone, but there is a path to this grave worn by many feet, and from the earliest spring snowdrop to the earliest November snow, there are always flowers lying upon it. No need to ask who lies buried there, for the information is always volunteered,—"Israel Colby, a better man never walked our streets; when he died the town mourned for him as for a father."

"I almost wonder a more imposing monument was not erected to him."

"It was talked of, but his wife said, 'No; it would not have been his wish;' and after all, the most fitting monument to such a man is the memory he leaves behind."—Ruth Chester in Youth's Companion.